When you see numbers like I can, death becomes a constant threat. It lingers, waiting for you to make one wrong move. One falter.One fatal step out of line. The endless presence will drain you, layering you with guilt and regret. Until one day, you’re covered in blood. And in that moment, you realize… you’ve become the grim reaper yourself.

Nothing could stop me from saving my little sister. Nothing could weaken me… until my boss threw a blonde slave at my feet. Once I found out who she was, I should have wanted her dead.

But I had a bad habit of breaking the rules.

And I loved that she hated me.

Like a stupid man named Romeo, I fell for the daughter of the feuding family. Like an idiot named Juliet, she didn’t try to run.

And when I fell for the fair maiden, I shook a pair of dice. I smoked a cigarette, but she paid the final price. As I offered her a smile, my venom filled her core. I watched her drink my poison as her soul walked out the door.

I carved the next X into the concrete wall of my cell,
stashed away in the depths of somewhere much like hell. If my tallies were
accurate, it was Wednesday again today; my
twenty-first day of captivity.

Dried blood was splattered on the concrete flooring of
my new home. Some of the red was undoubtedly mine, but many other droplets were
evidence of prior struggles. The dried handprints along the walls were telling
me the stories of many other slaves before me. All in a row, our bloody prints
depicted a painting of a morbid reality. My handprint was the last in line.

Three weeks had passed since I’d tasted more than
blood and saltine crackers. Three weeks had passed since I’d showered, turned
eighteen, and had then said goodbye to my freedom forever. Three weeks had
passed since the thugs had given me my first tattoo. And now, whether I managed
to escape from this prison or not, a barcode would mark me indefinitely.

My identification number was 40347. I had memorized
the digits within moments of staring at the unwanted code on my right wrist. I
had memorized everything right down to the dirty needle. My barcode had become
infected now, just like I’d anticipated it would, leaving me certain of one
detail; whoever chose to abuse me would consequently become infected with
whatever diseases I had. For participating in such a masochistic scheme, it
would serve the motherfucker(s) right.

My friends had been with me that night during spring
break. We’d been out celebrating my eighteenth birthday on the grass down by
the marina. Since most of us were attending different colleges come fall,
inevitably vanishing from each other’s lives one by one, we’d made a pact to
make good use of the time we had left together. Little did any of us know, when
I had insisted I was fine to make the short walk home alone that night, it
would be the last time they would ever see me.

I pressed my ear to the cell door. A slab of closed
steel was blocking my only exit, making it difficult to hear the voices
chattering in the distance. It wasn’t until the men footed closer that I
managed to make their words out. Once I could, I wished I couldn’t.

“Rows of whores…” The voice sounded like the man I had
woken up to on my first day of captivity. “But it’s that blonde bitch who
caught my eye. Once Garciez finds out who she is, the white girl will be dead
within hours.”

I stared at the mats in my blonde hair, suddenly wishing
I’d been born a brunette. This week had been the absolute worst so far. My
hallucinations had kicked into overdrive, a cause of low blood sugar and
dehydration. But in this moment, I was aware of my fever. Another few days,
maybe even just hours, I wasn’t confident my sanity would still prevail.

I wanted to believe this was just a nightmare. I hoped
I was in a parallel universe, in a hospital bed, maybe even in a coma. I prayed
this was just a sick plot my unconscious had stirred up. That all seemed better
than this reality; the reality where an ice-cold floor was my new home.

I didn't have much to compare being locked in
captivity to, but I’d seen movies of this type of thing. In Hollywood, the lead
female always gets rescued. A timidly sweet girl generally plays the role,
perfect in all the right areas. Unlike her, I was far from timid and even
further from perfect. I carried a chip on my shoulder; a chip that only came
from nearly dying of cancer.

About the Author:

Skyla Murphy is a highland junkie from West Coast, Canada. When she’s not searching the Rocky Mountains for Sasquatch, she can be found researching every other conspiracy theory known to mankind. Her Yorkshire Terrier is usually clung to her side, but he doesn’t buy into her philosophies much. Therefore, she writes about them instead.